


causing accidents

by buckyjerkbarnes



Series: one for the history books [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (i'm so glad that tag exists oh man), Captain America: Civil War Spoilers, Domestic!Stucky, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Humor, Kissing, Like, M/M, SO MANY LOCATION CHANGES, SO MUCH HUGS AND KISSES, SO MUCH WAS GOING DOWN, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve and bucky talk about their FEELINGs, Steve would have been upset, Well - Freeform, a kitten - Freeform, and wow i'm not bitter you're bitter, back at it again with the unnecessary het ships, but still, cap 3 spoilers, damn it marvel, even with the explanation Sharon gave, he didn't know Sharon was related to Peggy UNTIL the funeral when she stepped up to speak, he just found out Peggy died, her name is Mittens, i dislike the context of which it was pressed, i just love t'challa okay???, i need to see it again, i'm just so emotional about Cap 3 man, if you've not seen the movie don't read, it's just a small fix-it and contains minimal spoilers, smh, so many characters - Freeform, t'challa is the sweetest 2kforever, the brooklyn boys get their crap together 2k16, there may just be a mittens one-shot i'm planning bc there wasn't much opportunity to mention her, there's a cat, this is a no Sharon hate zone, while I don't dislike Staron, ya'll know the scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyjerkbarnes/pseuds/buckyjerkbarnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Course I did. Christ, sweetheart, of course I did. And you went and tried to be all sacrificing when I brought up our trip home back at that Hydra base; you remembered the name of that girl and the color of her hair, but all I could remember was you."<br/> </p><p>[a Civil War fix-it for that scene before the airport and afterward]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. berlin

_Berlin, 2016_

*

Sharon flicked open the trunk of the car, stepping back with a touch of pride, as the outer white ring of his shield caught a sunbeam and threw it back to them. Now that he knew she was related to Peggy, niece though she may be- grand-niece? Did she have any brothers or sisters? He'd never ran into them at the care home...- he saw her in the strong set to her shoulders, the sure way she carried herself. 

He hoped, when this was over, they might get to know each other better, as Steve and Sharon, rather than as Captain America and the woman who was assigned to baby-sit him by SHIELD. 

"I honestly can't thank you enough for this," Steve said. He couldn't miss the two sets of eyes boring into his back, couldn't miss the feeling of  _get moving, pronto_ that had been coursing through his veins since he'd used a paper clip Sam found in his pockets, among lint, to jimmy the lock on the dark blue Bug. 

Her smile was small and crooked. "Don't die," Sharon said. "That's how you can thank me." She flicked her gaze over his shoulder, locking onto something momentarily before she studied his face once more. Steve didn't have to crack through her exterior to find worry littering her features."I really don't want to have to speak at another funeral so soon." 

Something in his gut twisted, like the Black Panther had somehow reached through the muscle of his abdomen and sank his vibranium claws into his stomach, only to  _tug_. "It'll take a lot more than this to tear me down," he assured her. 

"More than a plane crashed in the Arctic?" 

"More than a plane crashed in the Arctic," he confirmed softly. "I've got a mission, now. I have someone who needs me." 

The little grin hadn't left her features, but it did darken as he concern intensified. She was an agent: he had no doubt she was fully aware just how dangerous any sort of assignment could be, even if his task was more of an, admittedly, extended way to atone for his sins, to atone for what he'd allowed Bucky to endure. Her gaze, once more, fell on a position at his six, where the car was parked. "Be careful out there, Steve." 

He raised his hands, offering her his palms as a show of assurance. "No more funerals, remember?"

Sharon leaned in, a soft hand curling to his jaw. She stood on the tips of her toes to press a warm kiss to the space between his eyebrows. "I'll hold you to that," she murmured, patting his cheek amiably, already backing away before he could get his footing and do something decent with his hands, like pat her shoulder to give her a squeeze. He unloaded the gear- Sam's wings, Bucky's back pack, and his suit and shield- and snapped the trunk shut, giving it a slap as a signal she was alright to pull off. In an surprisingly Natasha-esque manner, Sharon tore off with a yelp of breaks, rejoining the world of the free. 

"Will you move your feet, Captain Small-Ass?" Sam barked, poking his head out the window with a roll of his eyes. "Chop chop, damn it! This is not the time to day-dream patriotically even if the sun is really doing your jaw a lot of favors." 

Steve arranged the load in his arms so he he had his and Bucky's things beneath one arm and Sam's wings in the other. He dangled the silver and burgundy gear from a wavering fingertip. "What's that about my ass?" 

The other window, with a creak, rolled open. "It's a good ass," Bucky said, complete deadpan. 

Sam barked a laugh and Bucky cracked a smile at Steve's stunned expression. So much had come to the surface these last few days, so many memories he'd tucked away for the nights where the gaping, raw hole that Bucky's absence left felt too new, like it had been a few minutes since that train in the Alps, mere milliseconds since the Helicarriers collapsed in the Potomac. It was thanks to the curl of Bucky's mouth he was able to force himself back to their getaway car, passing Sam his gear through the open window. " _Ohhh,_ baby, I'm so glad to have you back. Falcon's here. It's okay. Shh, what did those big bad government dick-bags do to you?" 

Bucky's eyebrow quirked. It could have been nineteen forty-five. Dugan could have just shaved off part of his mustache and a joke could have just been born within that beautiful head. "We need to give you and the suit a little alone time?" (It was not nineteen forty-five. Steve was, if anything, a realist. Even if he was a disillusioned one when it came to the man before him.)

Sucking his teeth, Sam retorted: "See, that's the sort of attitude that's not getting this seat moved up." 

His insides were doing something funny. He felt, suddenly, like those clocks in that painting by Dali- runny and goopy and threatening to stretch into a place he knew he must go. Steve offered the black bag up to Bucky, shuddering when their fingers brushed. The bag didn't feel too heavy and, when Bucky tore his eyes away long enough to undo the zipper of the largest section, Steve saw that its depths were filled with neon-tabbed booklets similar to the one he'd found atop Bucky's fridge in Romania. The proof that Bucky  _remembered_ him, a million words jotted down in neat, rushed script; newspaper articles and Google images printed off and taped as a reminder of the man Bucky had been and who he was becoming. 

He had leaned momentarily against the side of the car, his hands curling over the space where the window would be. 

(Sam, bless him, was studying his fingernails and dutifully  _not_ looking in the rear-view mirror. Steve made a note to change his name to  _Da Best Wingman_ in his phone.)

"Everything there?"

That rewarded him with an owlish blink. "Yup." Bucky wrapped his cybernetic hand around Steve's wrist, catching him before he could pull back and move around the driver's seat. The metal was warm. "Thank you," Buck murmured, so soft Steve knew Sam had no hope in the world of hearing.

Steve gently curled his fingers around the silver knuckles and, though he had no idea just how sensitive it was compared to Bucky's flesh hand, gave it a firm squeeze. "You're worth it, you know. You're worth the whole damn thing."

A pink tongue darted out, dampening a plush mouth. He'd dreamed about that mouth since he was sixteen, since he knew what _want_ was. "I hope you're right." 

"I am," Steve said, low and true and fierce. Their eyes locked for a long moment, long enough for Sam to shift, as though the tension between he and Bucky was tangible and it was tickling at Sam's nerves. He had no idea when they'd find the time to be alone again, had no idea if they'd even be capable of making through the hours ahead. He uncovered Bucky's hand, giving his wrist a little twist to grasp at the silver fingers, bringing the chrome set of knuckles to his lips. He hoped Bucky could feel the pressure of his mouth, could maybe detect the way his heart was pounding double-time behind his ribs almost as hard as it would have during an asthma attack. "You've always been worth it, Buck." 

With that, Steve gently untangled their hands, but not without a final squeeze, climbing into his seat. 

He made an illegal U-turn, accelerating toward the point Wanda had claimed she'd be meeting him with Clint.

The feel of eyes on him, steel-gray and molten, granted him a stronger feeling of protection than any vibranium frisbee had ever done. 

It was not nineteen forty-five. 

And that was alright. 

*


	2. ii. wakanda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Even when I didn’t know you, I had this image of a stubborn blond punk who didn’t know how to back down from a fight in my head. Even when I had nothing else, I still had you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8/8/16: I made a few changes to how Bucky recovered given that it would enhance the story and the ties certain characters have with others. If you've read this before, you'll know it when you see it. Enjoy (again)!

_Wakanda, 2016._

_*_

The first thing Bucky registered was, upon trying to flex out his stiff limbs, all but his left arm responded. That had him stilling, as the memory of the fight and the frantic quinjet ride to the North African nation- Steve’s face looming over his, shaking hands curling to Bucky’s jaw. He didn’t think he’d ever be capable of forgetting Steve choking “ _Oh god Buck_ ” at the sight of his mangled arm- returned to him. He felt small puffs of air roll over his side methodically and pealed back his heavy eyelids to see Steve's hunched over in a leather chair tugged up beside a sleek bed, head propped on his folded arms as he rested. 

Bucky had spent a great many years in the same position, practically folded in half atop a spindly wooden stool on its last leg in not-so-sterile hospital wards, Sarah Rogers flitting in and out when she could during her nurses' shifts. He felt a rush of blood to the head at the roles being reversed. 

He trailed the backs of his flesh fingers over Steve’s soft cheek, flipping sides when he felt Steve stir. The warmth that built and spilled in his chest at the little snuffle Steve made had him smiling, the little curve of his mouth gathering support when Steve’s mouth pressed to his palm. “Even when you’re sleeping you always look so goddamn sincere,” Bucky murmured softly, inexplicably fond.

A little wrinkle formed in Steve’s nose. His eyelids fluttered, those obscenely long lashes fluttering, too. “I’m not asleep n'more.”

“Yeah, well,” his hand migrated to curl to the side of Steve’s head, resting tenderly atop the corn-gold strands. “When’s the last time you’ve showered, huh? I could oil the hinges in our old place with all the grease in your hair.”

“Seventy years and you’re still an ass in the morning,” Steve sighed, turning his face one more time to kiss Bucky’s palm again. Another starburst ignited behind Bucky’s ribs; a tingle of feeling from the exhale of Steve’s breath had him shivering in the best possible way. He watched the other man sit up, stretching his arms over his head so the thin gray t-shirt he wore rode up a little on his mid-section. Bucky did not miss the faint green bruising above his pelvis, branching up, no doubt, along his ribs. There was still a bit of discoloration along Steve’s cheek, but the cut above his eye had healed as had the bruising along his jaw. He couldn't have been out for more than twelve hours. “How’s the arm?”

“Still handy,” Bucky said, wriggling the fingers of his right hand wryly.

“Bucky.”

He couldn’t stamp down on a laugh, a rough bark of a thing. “Sorry,” he murmured, without sounding so in the least. “Dark humor. Work place hazard among Russians.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve repeated, exasperated and adoring all rolled in one. It was endearing, watching him try not to laugh and knowing full well he wanted to. 

He gave Steve a minute to collect himself by flicking his eyes around the space they were holed up in. Actually, holed up was too dirty of a word. This was the neatest space Bucky had ever seen, all sleek and put together, open, but not bare. The room was composed of pale blues and silvers, the northern wall entirely made of reinforced glass, tinted so the sun that streamed in did not sting his eyes. It opened up to a mighty expanse of trees and dark, rocky mountains, a looming, onyx stature of a black panther bearing its teeth in defense of the land. Bucky couldn’t help but whistle, low and impressed. “It’s like they’re compensating for something.”

That set Steve off, like a stick of dynamite burning rapidly down to the fuse, meeting highly flammable nitroglycerin and sawdust. A bark of mirth exploded out of him, followed by a huge grin, shaking his shoulders and part of the bed. He tenderly returned to the self-indulgent task of carding his fingertips through Steve's hair, giving a little scritch to the scalp here, a small, painless tug there.

A wheezing, gasping noise broke from between Steve's mouth, breaking Bucky from his reverie.  

He wasn't laughing anymore. 

Bucky ducked his head, stooping to peer under Steve's floppy bangs. "Steve?" he tried. 

"I'm sorry," the blond forced out, a half a step away from strangled. Quite abruptly, Bucky felt the phantom punch of Stark's repulsor firing off in his face, sending a stinging sensation wracking up and down his throat. "I didn't mean to let you fall. I don't think I've ever told you that. I wanted to let go of the train. Y-You jumped in after me in the Potomac and I couldn't even-" 

"I'm glad it was me," Bucky told him, tightening the grip he had on the crown of Steve's head. "If it came down between either one of us, I'm so damn glad it was me, Steve. They would have torn you apart- took all the good out of you; would've used the serum to do who knows what for that matter. If they had gotten their hands on you, the world might not be standing right now." 

He sounded, very much, like he was on the verge of having an asthma attack, even though Bucky was sure no such thing could even plague him again. Steve, noble, beautiful, Steve, pressed: "I-I didn't know if-"

Bucky's smile was small and it hurt, but it was  _real._ "Didn't know if I remembered us?" Steve's eyes were shiny, now, glittering and far too-blue with unshed tears. "Course I did. Christ, sweetheart, of course I did. And you went and tried to be all sacrificing when I brought up our trip home back at that Hydra base; you remembered the name of that girl and the color of her hair, but all I could remember was you." 

The shine tumbled over onto Steve's cheek and something in Bucky  _stuttered_. "I got low, Buck," Steve whispered, unable to lift his head and twisting those long, artist's fingers in the sheets for something to do. Bucky couldn't have that- it would be down right rude to just sit by as Steve ripped a king's fine, expensive sheets apart by the very thread- so he slipped his hand between Steve's, felt the trembling realization weave through his veins as he lifted his gaze. "I got so low thinking you might never know me again. And then you let me find you, and you..."

He couldn't speak, which wasn't all the surprising given he'd been a man smothered into silence for such a long while. Bucky sat up and jerked Steve to his chest by means of a quick bit of maneuvering; a tug of the collar, hand buried in that gold mop, twisting in the strands to keep him close. His breath kicked right out of his lungs when Steve's arms clasped around him, one around his hips, the other across his back. He burrowed his face in the place that separated Steve's shoulder from his neck, relishing in the salt-sweet smell of him. 

"You ain't gonna lose me again," Bucky said fiercely, giving the back of Steve's neck a firm shake. "You hear me?" 

"I ain't ever gonna lose you again," Steve echoed, hoarse as if he'd just ate a brick of sandpaper. He had no problem in feeling Steve's heartbeat through his shirt given how close they were, how only mere strands of atoms separated them. 

"Look at that beak," Bucky whispered, brushing a digit over Steve's nose, dipping in to peck the very tip. "You break it another time or twelve since I've been gone?" (Like he'd been on vacation on some sandy beach with fruity drinks and clear blue waters. Like he had known he would return all along. Like he would have ever willing left _Steve_.)

Steve exhaled a damp laugh. "You're one to talk with that chin, Buck. God, you could take someone's eye out with that thing." He moved in to lightly drag his teeth down the edge of Bucky's jaw, nibbling along his days-old scruff. Bucky couldn't resist letting the chill building up along his spine loose when Steve pressed an open mouthed kiss over his cleft, the air shaking out of him no better than if he'd been kicked with steel-toed boots. 

Really, there wasn't an other option, which Bucky could confirm given he was a tactician and all; was only natural that he slip his hand around Steve's head to rest over the cheek that had healed the most; was only expected Bucky tug the bug-eyed idiot in to seal their mouths together for the first time in a long, long time. Steve's arms unlaced from around his middle, settling down at the side of Bucky's neck, on Bucky's jaw where one of his thumbs brushed sweetly over his cheekbone. 

It could have been minutes or hours or days later when they parted, mouths separating with a soft, damp sound, and he bumped his forehead against Steve's, unwilling too move too far. “I’ve always loved you, yanno,” Bucky murmured, more relaxed than he'd been since that night before the Stark Expo, standing in the doorway as he watched Steve dress, the knowledge he'd be hopping aboard the ship that would take him to the fronts in Italy looming over him. “Even when I didn’t know you, I had this image of a stubborn blond punk who didn’t know how to back down from a fight in my head. Even when I had nothing else, I still had you.”

Steve hauled him in again, parting Bucky's mouth with an aggressive thrust of tongue between his lips. Even though his breath was stale, and Bucky's was likely far worse as there hadn't exactly been time to stop and brush his teeth, Steve was the best thing he'd ever tasted. If any frost remained clinging to Bucky's insides, any that hadn't been thawed by the very thought of Steve, it was melted by their teeth clashing fiercely, closer and closer and  _closer_.  

So this was healing.  

*

T'Challa, by means of repayment, purchased Tony's BARF technology for a small sum of twenty million dollars. 

(" _Small sum_?" Bucky burst, floored. He couldn't even _imagine_ twenty million dollars- that much money pumped into the world market back in the thirties could have seriously helped the Depression and sent the world back on track again. "What does he consider a large investment, then? Buying  _China_?" 

"He feels awful about what he did, Buck," Steve murmured, petting a hand down Bucky's back as they dined on the best cuisine Wakanda had to offer. Bucky didn't precisely know what he was eating, but Steve said it was partially made of yams, the rest was a mystery. "He's a good man who just so happens to be the richest person in the world. I think it's also part of his grieving process and who are we to step on the toes of a grieving man?" 

Bucky had to admit that Steve had a point there.)

The BARF technology had the power to, apparently, slide through his mind and eliminate memories that could, potentially, cause shell-shock- ("They call it PTSD, now, Buck. Post-traumatic stress disorder, I mean. Shell-shock is an," Steve made a  _face,_ "out-dated term.")- and even swoop in and crush any sort of triggers that could be hiding within him. Steve had recovered the Red Book from Zemo, with T'Challa locking it up in some high-security vault only he knew the passcode to. It was, ironically, one of the only hopes they had in flushing out all the reboot codes. 

This was a contegency plan, though, if a very, very pricey one. Wanda swore to him, before that fight at the airport, that she would do her best to slip inside his head and remove anything toxic Hydra left in its wake, including trigger words. Those ten damned words that  _unmade_ him. 

At the chance of, just maybe, being able to live a quiet life with Steve, of being half the man he hoped to be, Bucky  _jumped_ on it. 

"Besides Miss Maximoff, I've got the most brilliant women and men on our side working to cure you," T'Challa said, removing the blood pressure cuff from his arm and going immediately to remove the IV pumping him full of fluids from the crook of Bucky's elbow. "We shall work night and day to ensure you are safe to walk freely among the rest of the world." A tentative touch on Bucky's flesh shoulder. "And even work on constructing you a new, lighter arm." 

"Not a weapon," Bucky immediately said.

A hint of a smile quirked the corners of T'Challa's mouth. He nodded, understandingly. "Not a weapon."  

He climbed into the cyro-chamber, stiffening despite himself when one of T’Challa’s scientists approached him to snap the supportive restraints into place. When he pulled open his eyes, Steve was at his right, eyes wide and blue. “You sure about this?” he wondered for the thousandth time that morning.

"Best technology in the world, right?" Bucky nodded. "The guy's about as sincere as you are when he's not trying to kill me-" 

T'Challa, having offered up a formal apology a few days previous, complete with a firm hand shake and a look of complete and utter remorse on his face, rolled his eyes. He never stumbled in the conversation he and his technician were having with the true grace of royalty.

"-and I have faith that in a few months time, he'll have the words out of my head and then I can come home to you."

Steve leaned into his space, pitching his voice low. "No matter what happens, I'll be there to lend a hand."

Bucky choked, a grin flitting into place. "Now who's making arm-related puns?"

"Awh, Buck," Steve said, completely and utterly straight-faced. "Don't give me a cold shoulder."

"I hate you," Bucky snorted, groaning. "Ah, shit, no I don't. I can't even joke about that. Come 'ere." He would have reached for him, but a supportive cuff held his wrist in a position that offered the best track of blood flow which also wouldn't cause his bones to ache once the cold ran from his veins once this was all over. Steve did as he asked, closing what distance stretched between them to bracket Bucky's face in his broad palms, peering searchingly down at him and, at whatever he found, smiled. He was always glassy eyed and on the verge of crying these days, but Bucky couldn't find fault. He'd compressed himself down to all of three emotions during the little world-wide fiasco of the weeks preceding- rage, fury, and sadness. To see joy, and humor, and relief, and  _love_ , to look to his left and find that adored face glowing? 

He had Steve and Steve had him. That's all they'd ever really needed. 

Bucky craned his neck for a kiss, smiling against Steve's plush mouth. This was not goodbye. They'd never have to say such words again. 

Steve bumped his nose against Bucky's, their breaths mingling. "I love you."

 "And I you, sweetheart." They snagged a last peck, turned into two, three, seven chaste presses of mouths. 

From their left, a throat was cleared. "It is time, Captain," T'Challa said, approaching with a tablet cradled in both his hands. "Mr. Barnes." 

Steve took a step closer, ghosting a last kiss over Bucky's mouth. It took a great deal of self-control not to chase the heat Steve offered, letting his skull fall back onto the plush headrest with a sigh. "Thanks for this, pussy cat," Bucky murmured. 

T'Challa didn't even blink. "As I told you: it is the least I can do in repayment for the things I've done to you, my friend." 

If he could move his hand, he would have waved the man down. "Water under the bridge." 

"Really, though," Steve piped, quiet and yup, he'd slipped into the Captain America  _awh shucks, sir_  mode; tipped down face, hands in his pockets, a little smile. "We can't thank you enough." A pause. " _I_ can't thank you enough." 

They endured another minute and a half as T'Challa carefully reviewed what would be done, how they estimated they would be able to clear out everything that could be considered hazardous in the time range of six to eight months, how they'd start another war to keep him in safe hands, law be damned. 

Steve folded his arms over his chest, rocking forward then back once on his toes. It was a nervous tick. Bucky was glad he'd not lost that with time. "I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Bucky smiled, close mouthed. It tasted whole and real, this time. “I know you will.”

A small, ever pessimistic piece of him that loitered in his bones like the slithering snake in the Garden, waiting, always  _waiting_ , to strike when he was weakest, whispered that he might never be free of Hydra's grasp, that he may just remain in frozen stasis forever because no one wanted to be the guy who told the man with the broken brain he could never be fixed. But Steve was there, and Steve. _And Steve._  Steve was beaming brighter than the sunrise over Brooklyn and with a heart like that on Bucky's side, all doubt that things wouldn't work out flew from his mind.  

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is a really fantastic piece of meta (NOT DONE BY MYSELF) that, if you walked out of Civil War feeling unsatisfied, should fix that.](http://acrownofbloodandroses.tumblr.com/post/143922899586/the-depth-or-lack-thereof-of-steve-and-buckys)


	3. iii. brooklyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were no longer Captain America and the Winter Soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this one the "Let the Boys be Happy and Free 2k17". Enjoy!

_Brooklyn, 2017._

*

The ordeal took not six months, but ten and a half. Bucky didn't care, didn't even bat an eyelash because one look at Steve's face told him what he'd wanted to know: "You're entirely your own man, again, Buck. All of Hydra's heads have been cut off. You're  _free._ " 

(Had it not been for the restraints still keeping him upright, Bucky would have crumpled like a straw house in a hurricane.)

*

T'Challa, to no one's surprise in the least, helped them find a place in Brooklyn, even footed the bill for it, too. It's a nice little brownstone some four blocks from their old neighborhood, one Bucky has only the tiniest bit of trouble trying to picture, now; it's got three bedrooms, one of which has great lighting and Bucky's damned determined for Steve to turn into an art studio, the other, obviously, their master suite, and the one remaining serving as a guest room.

(Bucky had friends, now. Steve had sprang Wilson, Lang, Barton and Wanda from that high-security pen in the middle of the ocean before he'd gone under, using Wakandian resources to transport them into T'Challa's home-turf. All but Lang and Barton stayed, according to Steve as Scott had a little girl he had to get back to and the tractor on Barton's apparent farm that he lived on with his apparent wife and children had broken down. He had no doubt that Sam would drop by, that Natasha would probably turn up in their kitchen eating food from their fridge without a lick of shame even though no one had ever told her the address. He particularly had a fondness for Wanda, who had a fondness for Steve, and knew she'd pop in, too. Barton wasn't wasn't all that bad, either, and, when he met Bucky that first time some eleven months previous, he'd shaken his hand firmly. just before that fight at the airport and said: "Look. I may not have gone through an _iota_ of what you have, but I know what it's like to have my brain futzed with. So if you ever need someone that's not big, blond and the epitome of an All-American beefcake to talk to, it's been told I've got good taste in beer and I'm pretty damn good at lending an ear." 

Sam had strode by with Wanda, the former rolling his eyes. "When he doesn't turn down the volume on his hearing aids."

Clint jabbed a finger Sam's way. "That was one time!")

Anyway. Steve's bank account had been frozen by the US government and any sort of withdraw would be immediately tracked and send up red flags Ross's way. T'Challa, generous as ever, offered them a lump sum of money to start off on, but Bucky refused, kindly as he could. "Pal, you've done so much for me already. For Steve, too. With everything up here sorted out-," he made a little gesture to his temple, "-I know the codes to gain access to private accounts of Hydra's. The least they owe me is a bit of cash." 

This was how they filled their home. Neither he nor Steve was much interested in going to some overly-expensive place like Sax Fifth Avenue or Tiffany's for a damn  _lamp_. Once a boy from the Depression, always a boy from the Depression: this was why their possessions tended to be purchased at thrift shops or from the Salvation Army. Their bed-frame, however, was specially purchased, as to compensate for their size and weight and made of thick yet intricate wrought-iron. They also tracked down a store that still sold raw-cotton mattresses, the real tough sort that almost felt like the floor- a small blessing. A couple of boxes turned up at their doorstep a few days after they'd nearly settled in, two with Steve's things from Avenger's Tower, one from Bucky's little hideaway in Romania. Both had a small red hourglass doodled on the bottom and were filled primarily with knick-knacks that helped to fill empty shelves in the living room; a photo of Sarah Rogers, recovered from Steve's things after he'd gotten out of the ice, a couple of dog-earred science fiction novels, a map of Europe that took up space on one of the walls in the living room, because they were both sentimental bastards.

A Bucky Bear was their house warming present from Sam, domino mask thrice re-tacked, ears fraying at the edges. "Was this yours?" Bucky asked, as Sam had been looking fondly at the bear as it was passed from Steve to its namesake. 

"...no." 

Steve snorted, without heat and settled the bear in the place of honor- beside the photo of Sarah Rogers. 

There was, also, an entire box dedicated holding letters composed by children and those children's parents, all with kind things to say to _Steve_. Bucky appreciated that. He really did. _Dear Cap- my dad told me not to be scared of monsters in the dark because you're keeping them away. To Mr. Rogers: thank you for what you have given to the country- my mom is in the Army and I understand the sacrifices you've made. I see them everyday with her. Dear Mr. Steve- I wanted to name my dog Spot, but my brother thought you'd appreciate Liberty more, and so our dog is now named Liberty. Dear Captain Rogers: thank you for being such a good influence for my children. Good role models in this tarnished society are so rare these days..._ Bucky smiled at the stack of drawings, nearly as thick as _War and Peace_ and secured with a neat bow, from various kids that were all done in crayons and were mostly red, white, and blue, kept because Steve was a sucker for the little ankle biters and would probably never forgive himself if he tossed out something given to him by a  _kid._

They were not the same kids who got hauled into a world war in nineteen forty-two. Bucky had accepted that those naive boys died the moment they stepped off of American territory, leaving Brooklyn in their wake. 

They were no longer Captain America and the Winter Soldier. 

In the safety of their home, with high-tech security measures put in place by a god damn African  _king_ , they were granted the opportunity to step into the worn shoes of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.

*

Before they left though, T'Challa presented Bucky with a new model arm to replace the ragged bit still connected to his shoulder. "Is it-?" 

"Vibranium," the king of Wakanda confirmed, soft brown irises flicking to Steve then back to Bucky. "Lighter and with a much higher likelihood to  _not_ put a chronic strain on your bones. Steve, here, had a hand in the design on the shoulder." 

Said design was a smaller version of the shield, a white star surrounded by a blue ring with white ring wrapping around it. 

"You're a god damn sap, Rogers," Bucky said hoarsely, reaching out with his flesh hand to run his digits over the smooth metal, which had adopted the same plating style and, as T'Challa claimed, was a great deal less weighty. 

"You cut out pictures of me and taped them in your journals," Steve retorted wetly, without heat. "Who's the god damn sap now?" 

Bucky used his flesh hand to tug Steve in by the back of the neck, smashing their mouths together with a damp noise. Steve's lips immediately parted beneath Bucky's, second nature, and he tangled the fingers of his new hand in the collar of one of Steve's blessedly too-tight shirts. "We can both be saps, punk," he murmured, licking the taste of himself off the sweet curve of Steve's lower lip. Bucky brushed his nose against Steve's, humming delightedly when Steve shivered. "This ain't a competition." 

"Jerk," Steve whispered, his eyes fluttering open to take the vibranium hand in his. "It's beautiful." 

"Mm." He chanced a glance to his left, to the space T'Challa had last occupied, and grinned, a touch impish, when they found there was a Black Panther-sized gap instead. Bucky wasn't sure whether he should be relieved that he had allowed himself to trust someone else enough to tear his attention away from them or if he should be kicking himself for letting that damned cat get the drop on him. Again. A second of further investigation showed T'Challa had retreated across the room, quietly talking and nodding with the group of scientists who'd helped Bucky through this. There was much hang-shaking and knuckle kissing. A bit of bowing, too. "We should get him a bell." 

"I don't think he'd appreciate that very much." 

Bucky hummed, watching Steve watching him, and ticked up the corners of his mouth. He dipped in to kiss Steve once more, real chaste, this time. "I think he'd find the humor in it." 

*

One object that took a bit longer than the rest to be delivered to their apartment was Steve's record player. It was an old thing, no doubt plucked from the bowels of a thrift store once Steve had returned to the world of the living, given it looked like something one of Bucky's friends from the docks owned before the war, all beaten up at the edges, a little scuffed by the heels of time. Still worked like a charm, though. 

It had been a lazy Sunday, a hot dog's day afternoon where he and Steve had rolled around in the sheets half the day, showered, and spent another few hours piled up on the couch in nothing but their boxer briefs. 

Only, Bucky had found the lyrics to a song he'd not heard in,  _God_ , eighty years? Eighty-five? Floating through his head sometime just after two. The air conditioner had been turned down, given neither of them much liked the cold even when the entire world was so hot just the thought could fry eggs, and he uncurled from around Steve, unsticking their skin and padding to the old device. He'd pawed through the record collection that Steve had acquired, noted how his teammates- former teammates?- had contributed to his tastes. Black Sabbath, Tchaikovsky, an album or two of music designed to unlock one's inner calm, something in Norwegian Bucky had no chance in hell of uttering correctly, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin. He could still find Steve, though, beneath all the less familiar titles: The Andrews Sisters, Billie Holiday, Glenn Miller, Vera Lynn, Bing Crosby, Tommy Dorsey. 

The track of the moment, though, was a bittersweet gem by Kate Smith, the opening was prefaced by a softly blown trumpet. 

Steve had watched him, eyes heavy-lidded and smitten, cross the room and they blew open wide when Bucky padded back to him with an extended hand. 

"Dance with me?"

"Buck...," Steve said, just as Kate's fluttering, bird-like voice swam into the room. 

" _Good night, sweetheart. Till we meet tomorrow... Good night, sweetheart. Sleep will banish sorrow..."_

He wriggled his fingers, quirking his right eyebrow by means of a challenge. "She's asking for ya, doll. Come on. I never got to dance with you back then. Never had the time... or the legal opportunity."

Steve swung his legs off the couch, climbing to his feet. "I'm gonna step on your toes," he said weakly and as far as excuses went it was a poor one to say the least. 

"No you won't," Bucky murmured, curling his metal hand around Steve's right, allowing his flesh fingers to span Steve's ribs, squeezing tenderly before slipping around to settle on the small of his back. "You're too coordinated for that" 

"You'd be surprised," Steve muttered, clenching his fingers around Bucky's and mirroring him with an arm slid around the narrow line of Bucky's hips. The first chorus struck up, a piano and a violin taking over as the trumpet took a moment to breathe. He was very sure to pull Steve close, leaving only a few scant inches for Jesus between their hips, because otherwise, Steve would have dipped his head to make sure his feet were working with him. 

"Steve," he couldn't help but chuckle, so soft the noise could have been lost if he and Steve didn't have enhanced hearing. "Darlin', look _at_ me." He did, tearing his eyes from a point below Bucky's collar bone where dark silver metal fused with his skin, blue eyes catching his in an embrace that never failed to warm him. "There ya are," Bucky said, swaying from foot to foot and, in extension, encouraging Steve to do the same. "See? It's easy." 

"That's because you're leading," Steve huffed. Bucky could feel the way the pad of Steve's thumb was gently sweeping over his spine, rolling in little, collected circles just above the waistband of Bucky's boxers. 

"It's a slow song," Bucky pointed out. "It's not like you've got to bust out into a foxtrot or a lindy hop." And, to accentuate his point, he released Steve's waist long enough to spin away from him, only to wind himself in so his back was momentarily pressed to Steve's chest, their temples aligned. He made to shift away, but faltered when Steve made a soft noise of protest.

"Stay like this," Steve murmured, wrapping his arms around Bucky from behind and settling his chin in the hollow of Bucky's shoulder. Their fingers overlapped. This close, it was impossible not to be touching, very nearly, from ear to calf. They kept swaying, shuffling, really. Kate kept singing her song of mourning, her tune of bottomless hope.   

He felt warm. 

*

A text from a burner phone woke him in the middle of the night. It carried a simple message:  _Roof_. 

His phone had made no noise, but the light of the screen was enough to disturb his rest. Bucky was no fool, could think of only one person capable of both locating their home  _and_ getting his private number without breaking a sweat. He slid out of bed, ghosting a kiss on Steve's forehead. His best guy had an endearing habit of spreading out like an octopus, a limb at every corner of the bed, practically, and without Bucky, he curled in on himself, snuffling in discontent. 

"I'll be back in a few," Bucky murmured, brushing the limp, gold hair from Steve's forehead. 

"You'd better," Steve mumbled back, words puttering off on a slur before his breathing evened out once more. 

The climb to the roof was an easy one- up the staircase, through one of the spare bedrooms and out through the already-open window. 

Natalia, no,  _Natasha_ was perched on the edge, digging a spoon into the corner of a carton of Rocky Road ice cream that Bucky recalled picking up from the store three days ago. She held out a spoon of his own when he quirked an eyebrow at her. She shrugged, unperturbed, as he sank down on her right. It gave her the best view of his metal arm, a small comfort he knew she'd appreciate. "Barnes," she said in that husky voice of hers. 

He nodded, helping himself to a generous spoon of the soft-serve. "Romanov." 

"Natasha, please," she said, licking a streak of half-melted chocolate from her thumb. 

Bucky couldn't help but smile, just slightly. This was an olive branch. "Bucky." He took it.  

"Bucky is the name of a child," Natasha snorted. "I take it Steve gave it to you all those years ago?" 

Another nod, another dent in the carton of Rocky Road. "We had eight James in our class. Had to stand out somehow." 

"Oh yes," she snarked, "because being the guardian angel of a ninety-pound asthmatic with the temperament of a pissed off Chihuahua _doesn't_ put a huge neon sign on your head." 

He chuckled at the surprisingly accurate image she painted for him, letting his hands hang limply between his slightly spread knees. Both of them sat with their legs hanging over the edge, four floors up with nothing but pavement below. It was an act of trust all in itself, that she was sitting so close, that she came without any sort of backup. He had no doubt, however, she could hold her own. Hell, he'd seen it. He'd  _trained_ her, for that matter. Bucky knew exactly what she was capable of. 

"How are you?" Natasha prompted after a minute of quiet, where they simply listened to cars in the distance and squinted at the blazing lights of Manhattan just visible from their perch. There was genuine concern in his words, low-laying, but true. 

"About as good as can be expected," he said. The nightmares still attacked him when he least expected them on occasion; though his memories of kills had had all of the tension released from them, the images that would forever bloody his hands still remained, as did the faces of those he took from the world too early. 

"And Steve?" she actually looked at him, then, lowering her spoon so it was jabbed into the block of ice cream.

Bucky gave her a smile with teeth, this time, looking every bit of a love-struck dope as he felt. "We're getting through." 

She nodded to herself, like this was an acceptable answer.

According to Steve, even over Sam, Natasha had been his closest friend since the start: she and Steve understood each other on a level that few did, and though they had their respective secrets, the other was perfectly alright with allowing those to remain behind lock and key. The Black Widow program had been erected on grounds of self-discipline and strength. Seeing this small, red-haired woman eating a high-calorie desert on his and Steve's roof in the middle of the night made something inside of him shake loose. He thought, with time, he might learn to love Natasha the way Steve did. 

"I suppose what I really came here to say is that if you hurt him, hurt him in any way, shape or form..." she pulled up her sleeve, where she had hidden one of her Widow gauntlets. It buzzed electric blue. 

"You'll rip out my heart with your bear hands and bury me where the ground never gets hard," Bucky finished. "And then when you've done all that, you'd chop me up into little pieces and feed me to a lion or something." 

"I have a friend who used to be in the circus," she warned, smiling now. "I can arrange that." 

"I don't doubt it," Bucky said, flicking his eyes from her face to the metal spoon in his hand. He gave it a twist, turning it into a small loop of silver. It took very little effort to straight it back out to its regular shape. "We've lost each other so many times, Natasha. I'm not stupid enough to do something that would risk loosing him again, not after all the chances we've been given." 

Her face had smoothed over again and the moon seemed to be reflecting her light, instead. She glowed. "I knew I had good reason for helping to start a war for you, James." 

*

Bucky heard a loud  _bang_ ricochet from the bedroom, followed by a thump, then a curse.

He did not have to falter in his step as he snagged the gun taped under the coffee table and vaulted noiselessly over the couch, keeping his footsteps mute all the way up until he was at his and Steve's bedroom. Kicking the door open, offering up his unbreakable arm first in-case of instant gunfire Bucky-

Bucky faltered at the sight of Steve and Wanda sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a small bundle of white fur perched on Steve's head. 

"What." 

Wanda smiled, wriggling her fingers at him in a wave. "Hello, Bucky," she greeted, pink-cheeked and amused. The lamp on the bedside table had been knocked off and was sitting crookedly on the floor, the coat hanger tipped over with Steve's butter-soft leather jacket crumpled beneath it. Both Steve and Wanda were barefoot. The kitten mewed. 

" _What_." 

"Vision found her wandering the streets without a collar," Wanda explained, turning her eyes from Bucky's bemused expression to the gun he still gripped tightly in his hands. A little flick of her pointer finger, a dusting of that red energy swirling through the air, had the SIG dismantled, the magazine hovering and settling on the bookshelf. Bucky placed the remaining piece of the gun beside it and did not miss the way Wanda's little smile widened. "Stark is not fond of small animals and would not let he and I keep her. I thought she might find a good home here." 

When he looked to Steve, he saw that the kitten had wriggled its way down from Steve's head and he crawled under his shirt, a little lump on his shoulder giving him quite the disfigured stance. The small white head poked out, blinking tiny, gray eyes against the light, and craned its face up to nuzzle Steve's chin. She had to move out from beneath his collar to do so, revealing each of her feet had perfect black patches of fur that stopped around the kitten equivalent of her ankles. 

"Her name is Mittens," Steve beamed. 

It would have been illegal, surely, to say no to Captain America while he was being nuzzled by a fur-ball. Probably would have shattered, like, all of the accords in the Geneva Convention. "Mittens, huh. Wish you would have told me, sweetheart: I passed a pet shop on the way home." 

"That's where-," Wanda began only for Vision to rise through the floorboards a less than a foot to Bucky's left. "-Vis went." 

Deliberately, Bucky closed his eyes and stamped down on the urge to punch the red humanoid in the mouth for nearly scaring the shit out of him. 

"I've procured the necessities to care for Ms. Mittens, here," Vision said in that typical tone of his. The gears in his eyes rolled a little faster, Bucky noted, when Wanda stood fluidly and made to paw through the large paper bag, brushing Vision's side with a gentle hand. "Including the scratching post, cat-nip, proper food for her age and weight, a collar, and so forth." 

A bit later, once they'd moved into the living room and the cat furniture had found a place in the empty nooks of the brownstone, a small bed settled at the foot of Steve and Bucky's, litter-box in the back bathroom neither one of them used, he found Vision in the kitchen, trying to go about preparing them all cups of tea. He used to be good at this, Bucky remembered. Used to be real good at talking to people. He felt like he owed Vision this, given the intensity of Steve's smile at having Mittens running around, a new resident in their home. Because of Wanda, of the time she spent doing her damnedest to help him, of her using that terrible, terrible guide composed to take him apart to piece him back together, he was able to come home to Steve. It was only fair, after all.

Plus, Wanda reminded him a bit of Becca if he reached far enough. Rebecca Barnes had only been in the forth grade when he'd left home: he felt, on some sort of cosmic level, he owed her a prod of this nature, given he'd not gotten to pull any sort of Protective Brother card on any schmuck that might've wanted to jump down his sister's panties. 

"Hey, er, Vision?" Bucky tried softly, joining him at the kitchen sink as they waited for the water on the stove to come to a boil. 

The man's head immediately snapped his way. His voice was soft as to not startle. "Yes, Sergeant?" 

"You tell Wanda how you feel about her, yet?" (He'd almost died a thousand times, probably: the least he could do was attempt to spread some happiness.)

Vision went stiff, like he was on the verge of powering down. "I cannot say I know what you mean." 

He couldn't stamp down on a small roll of his eyes. "Well, if you figure it out later, you should know it's damn useless to wait. That pretty lady?" Bucky nodded at Wanda, who was using her powers to amuse the kitten, pushing a jingly ball around for the little creature to lunge at and pounce on. Steve was smiling, eyes focused on a point just to the left of Mittens, no doubt tuning in to the conversation. Bucky didn't mind. He'd planned to tell Steve about it later, anyway. "She's been through hell, lost a lot of people, and still manages to be kind. That's a rare thing. She likes you a lot. A  _lot_. Don't make her wait too long. You'll kick yourself in the pants for all the lost time." 

Steve  _was_ looking at him, now, facial features so soft and so  _adoring_ , Bucky's knees almost went weak with it. He'd had the same look on his face after that near-fatal mission in forty-two, where Steve was nearly shot in the head and Bucky got a broken hand from punching the teeth in of the Nazi that almost took his sweetest friend from him; the same look when Bucky practically throttled Steve for coming to the fronts in the first place; the same look when Bucky had had enough and slotted their mouths together, jerking him in by the straps of his uniform. The look had only grown gentler when he and Steve had parted for breath, alone and over-heated in the vacant hospital wing. " _Took you long enough_ ," Steve had said. And Bucky? Bucky tugged him in exasperatedly, biting that plump lower lip into his mouth. " _T_ _ook_ me  _long enough, he says. Takes two to do a tango, I say."_

The water was whistling in the kettle. It almost drowned out Vision's response: "The more I am around her, the more...  _human_ I feel." 

Bucky clapped a gentle hand on Vision's shoulder, squeezing the firm muscle there. "That's love, pal. If your insides get all tingly, don't worry too much about that." 

Vision made a  _face_. If he wasn't handling what was quite obviously a very delicate subject, Bucky might have chuckled at it. "I actually feel a bit ill." 

He did laugh at that. "Also an option. I know I sometimes get a little queasy looking at that guy's-," Bucky jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "-ugly mug." 

(Steve squawked, Bucky grinned, Wanda laughed, oblivious to the true topic at hand, and Vision's features softened. The tea went forgotten.)

*

Steve was out and about, aiming to pick up something sweet for Bucky- preferably a chocolate cake of sorts, as neither of them had had something so cavity-inducing since Sarah Rogers was alive and Winfred Barnes was still trying to get Bucky to go to church every Sunday- when he saw Spider-Man swinging erratically after a emerald green man on what looked like a high-tech surfboard. 

He sighed, looking mournfully at the bright bakery display, and took off down the nearest alley. Steve was lucky in his find, a real sturdy metal trash-can lid, and even luckier that there was a relatively stable fire-escape system that he could scale to the point he'd seen the red and blue clad kid take off to. 

Launching himself over the lip of the roof and sprinting after the pair, Steve shouted: "On your left!" He'd already whipped the trashcan lid through the air, using a bit of on-the-fly math to compensate for the lighter weight. His blow hit home, though, throwing the green man off kilter and granting Spider-Man the opportunity to web the assailant into submission. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Spider-Man was chanting below his breath, hesitating as he jerked the guy up by his shoulder and slammed a well-calculated punch to the side of the guy's head. 

It packed enough juice behind it to knock the guy out. 

"He's not normally like this," Spider-Man told Steve, waving a lame hand at the guy between them. "Daddy issues. Bitter. Pissed off at me." 

Steve couldn't help the little laugh that left him. "I know a guy like that." 

Spider-Man didn't have to take off his mask for Steve to know he was looking directly at the guy. "He's a good person. He's just... had a lot of bad sh-uh,  _stuff_ happen to him." 

Steve's face softened. "Sounds like my guy, too." 

The boy in red and blue glanced down at his feet, seemed to squint, then jerked up the edge of his mask. Steve almost made a noise of surprise as the kid couldn't be more than  _twelve,_ all youth-round edges and too-big brown eyes. There was a bruise blooming on the side of his head, swirls of indigo and violet against milk-white. "You two speaking yet?" 

"We've reached an understanding with each other," Steve said. The poor guy on the ground looked, for lack of better word,  _mutated._ His eyebrows were warped, nose heavily pointed at the end, deeply set lines in his face that were tinged the same color green as the glowing board, which had collapsed some twenty yards away on the roof adjacent them. "Haven't exactly hugged it out and sang Kumbaya, but," Steve shrugged. "We're working on it."

Spider-Man nodded, tipping his face down morosely. "I guess if you and Mr. Stark can resolve your differences, then he and I can, too."  

"If he means something to you, and you believe the friendship is worth preserving...," Steve trailed off, allowing his response to be open-ended. 

"Then...," Spider-Man drawled, flicking his eyes between Steve and the green-tinged guy, who, now that Steve had an idea of what he was looking for, appeared to be about the same age as Spider-Man. 

He stepped up, curling a gentle hand to Spider-Mans's thin shoulder. " _Then_  you communicate your intentions and you start rebuilding." 

"Rebuilding," the young hero before him echoed. The guy at their feet stirred, prompting Spider-Man to haul his mask down over his eyes, nose and jaw, tucking it down into his neckline with a little salute. "Thanks for the words of wisdom, Cap. Seriously." He fired off another salute, totally off form, but sincere. "Huge fan. Really, really big fan. Wrote a history paper on you for my end of the year project in ninth grade. And I'd love to stick around and catch up on life since Berlin, but..." 

Steve gave him a little push. "Get your pal somewhere he won't hurt himself or others." A pause. "Or  _you_." 

Spider-Man nodded, jerkily. "Will do, Mr. Rogers. Captain Rogers? Steve? Can I call you Steve?" 

"Spider-Boy," Steve said, pointedly. 

The kid raised his palms in defeat. "Okay, okay. I'll stick to Cap." He didn't hesitate this time when it came to knocking out his friend, wincing when the guy grunted. An arm was slid under the guy's armpits, a line of webbing shooting from the kid's wrist. As he swung away, Steve heard him call: "AND IT'S SPIDER- _MAN_!" 

Steve watched him go, slinging off into the sunset with a limp body clutched tight to his chest. He sighed, flattening a hand over his stomach. 

No doubt, someone had gotten to that delicious-looking cake already.

*

In the time since Bucky fell and Steve went under the ice, hundreds of Disney films had been released.  _Hundreds_. They'd snuck in to watch  _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_ six times because Steve had been so fascinated with the individually hand-painted panels, the way the entire picture had a real-life quality to it, a touch of color in a world of gray. 

Bucky and Steve watched  _Frozen_ after it was recommended to them by Barton, on the good word that his children had adored it. 

If he heard the words _Let it Go_ one more time, Bucky was going to stab himself in the eardrums with one of Steve's fancy art pencils. 

(Sam, being the asshole that he was, cracked no less than twenty ice-related puns, absolutely delighted another set of adults had been tortured by the admittedly catchy score and had the songs stuck in their heads. He had, apparently, watched the movie several times with his niece and nephew. "You need to take a leaf out of Olaf's book, Grumpy Cat. Keep on scowling like that and your face will stick."

"Fuck you, Wilson," Bucky grumbled, the first lines of  _Fixer-Upper_ rolling through his mind despite himself. Steve, as he passed with a sketchbook and a cold cup of coffee, was humming the second to last verse of  _Love is an Open Door_.  

"Wouldn't you like to, Barnes," Sam said, sickly sweet.) 

*

"Are you upset?" Steve wondered real late a few weeks deep into October. It was the middle of the night and their bodies were void of clothing and Bucky was almost out, wrapped around Steve.

He was, in that moment, anything but upset. 

"Uh," Bucky said, clearing his throat so his voice didn't sound so raspy. "No?" 

The blond shifted so instead of his back being plastered to Bucky's chest, they were a pair of closed parenthesis, legs entangled, arms draped around the other. Faintly, he could heal Mittens rolling one of her jingly balls around in the hall, a lazy, kick of a noise."I  _mean_ , are you upset that the future isn't filled with flying cars and the like? I know when I woke up back in 2011, everything was bright and flashy and _chrome_ and honestly, they had found the cure to polio, smashed a computer down to the size of your palm, and had  _jet-packs_ , but not a flying car in the sky. And the _buildings,_ Buck. They were a post-Modernism nightmare." Steve even paired that hushed confession with a dramatized shudder. 

Bucky huffed a laugh, one void of heat. The only light being from the incessant streetlamp that somehow managed to leak beneath the curtains. It didn't hinder him from being able to see the sleep-soft way Steve's eyes lingered on his face, tenderly raising his hands to cup Steve's jaw. "While all the technological advancements are great, sure," and he wriggled his fingers by means of an example, "I said we were going to see the future  _together._ And we're here, Stevie. We're actually fucking  _here_. God and fate and a bunch of Neo-Nazi assholes tried to keep us from getting here, but we beat them. We  _won_." 

Steve pulled him closer. There was physically no way for them to eliminate anymore space, unless their atomic makeup collapsed and allowed them to merge as one. Rib of rib, and all that. "We did, didn't we?" 

He hummed his confirmation. "We did." Bucky kissed him lightly with just enough pressure for Steve's eyes to flutter shut. "We  _did._ " 

There was a shift in the atmosphere outside, Steve's fingers skating down Bucky's sides and slipping, coyly, under his boxers. Out of instinct, Bucky spread his legs for Steve to curl his fingers into him, still wet and worked loose from the hours previous. Their lips found each other.

It began to rain. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I've really enjoyed writing this piece :) Any grammatical errors are all my own!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Home" by Daughter, of which has had me in all of my Stucky feels since I left the movie theater. 
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on [Tumblr](http://sgtbxrnes.co.vu)!


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